“Bird or butterfly, it would be all the same, Nat; we should prize it and revel in our discovery.”
“Yes, and I’d race you, uncle, and see which could find most new sorts.”
“And of an evening we could sit in our tent or hut, and skin and preserve, or pin out what we had found during the day, Nat, eh?”
“Oh, uncle, it would be glorious!” I cried excitedly. “And I say—birds of paradise! We would make such a collection of all the loveliest kinds.”
“Then we should have to hunt and fish, Nat, for the pot, for there would be no butchers’ and fishmongers’ shops, lad.”
“Oh! it would be glorious, uncle!” I cried.
“Glorious, my boy!” he said as excitedly as I; “why, we should get on splendidly, and—tut, tut, tut! what an idiot am I! Hold your tongue, sir, it is impossible!”
“Uncle!”
“Here have I been encouraging the boy, instead of crushing the idea at once,” he cried impatiently. “No, no, no, Nat, my boy. It was very foolish of me to speak as I did. You must not think of it any more.”
“Oh! uncle, don’t talk to me like that,” I cried. “Pray, pray take me with you.”